


winter things

by uneventfulhouses



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: College AU, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, an early christmas fic, lots of emotions, shane's very dramatic here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 18:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uneventfulhouses/pseuds/uneventfulhouses
Summary: “Know what we should do, though?” Ryan says.When Shane looks up at Ryan, Ryan’s eyes are alight, sparkling with something Shane can’t quite put a finger on. Shane doesn’t think he’s seen it before—he knows a lot of Ryan’s faces, a lot of the different kinds of eye sparkles in Ryan’s brown, brown eyes, framed by all those long, long lashes, casting shadows where that pink blush used to be, but this one is just—it catches him again, and Shane just—well, he doesn’t like the way it makes his stomach flip, somersaulting into his throat before settling. Shane clears his throat, like that’ll help.or; ryan convinces shane to go christmas tree shopping.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 36
Kudos: 166





	winter things

**Author's Note:**

> hi! it's not even black friday yet and i was trying to hold out, but i already have two additional fics going through revision and i just can't wait anymore. the title is from ariana grande's titular song. all mistakes are my own. enjoy!

Black Friday meant no classes, and no classes meant sleeping in, which; in all honesty, was Shane’s favorite. Thanksgiving wasn’t much of a holiday in the Madej household—they skipped over it in a rather blasé way, charging up for Christmas festivities instead. So, that just meant this was the third year Shane spent Thanksgiving in his dorm set with his bed, his laptop and Netflix queue, dead to the world. _ Sweet, sweet peace._

Typically, there weren’t many people on campus, which meant security would be skinny, and Shane didn’t think it would hurt to open up his fourth story window to blow the smoke from his joint out—the fan was running, there was a towel at the bottom of the door, the whole bit. He cracked a textbook open for good measure, reading through precarious battles and ridiculous bouts of showmanship, which were really just dick measuring contests that ended in the brutality of war. Good shit but, like, in the worst way.

Eyes hazy and body languid, Shane can feel himself settling into the sinking comfort of his shitty dorm mattress—enough weed for now. He stubs it out, leaving it on the windowsill. He retires his textbook to the floor beside his bed, among the multitude of other textbooks, and pulls his laptop from under his pillow. A minute into drifting through his list on Netflix, his laptop dings with a notification.

_ryan._

_Today 10:46 AM_

_Can smell it from here dude_

_Eh, cest la vie_

_When in rome_

_Who gives a shit_

_Let me in_

Rolling his eyes and telling his smile to go fuck itself, Shane shoves his laptop to the side, as climbs off his bed, making sure to throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from some point this week before quickly answering the door so Ryan can slink in. He looks tired, like he’s just crawled out of bed, too, hair still skewed and eyes puffy. He’s quick to make himself comfortable on Shane’s stupidly modest twin bed, sitting up against the wall, ankles barely hanging off the side. Had it been bigger, they could lay down, laptop in the middle, and switch the joint back and forth. Shane wishes it was bigger, but as it goes, they stand by the window, blowing giant bouts of smoke out, looking at each other every so often, and falling into precarious giggles.

The thing is, this is his favorite thing, probably in the whole world. Ryan and his dumb smile and lazy eyelids, and the shock of red around his irises. He laughs more in moments like these; he’s so relaxed Shane’s sure if he picked Ryan up, he’d be a boneless mass in his arms.

“What are you still doing here?” Shane asks finally, as they get into his bed. They share the blanket, laptop perched on a pillow between their legs. (It doesn’t quite matter what position they start in; Ryan will doze off, make a pillow out of Shane’s arm. Happens every time.)

“I told you I was staying,” Ryan says, and Shane does remember him saying that, but he didn’t really think that would be the case. He thought Ryan would leave—why spend the holiday here when it’s just a few hours drive home? It doesn’t make sense. Shane’s parents are in Chicago. It’s inconceivable to fly all the way out there for a week, when Christmas is when it gets poppin’.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane says, but he doesn’t voice all the other shit—if Ryan wanted to tell him there was something up, then Ryan would tell him, except that isn’t true in the slightest. But Shane doesn’t want to disturb this, potentially pick a fight over nothing at all. He’s got Ryan, he’s got Netflix. It’s fixin’ to be a very good day.

It’s Ryan that picks what they watch—for some reason, Shane lets him pick, because he’s got a soft spot or whatever, especially when Ryan seems a little more dazed than he usually does during their weed-scapades. Shane’s too out of his right mind to question it, so this is what he does. He caters, he lets and allows, he just invites Ryan to come and command.

The usual type of flick they’d watch would be of the horror genre, something with a lot of jump scares that makes Ryan scream, shove his face into the fistfuls of Shane’s comforter—shit that makes Shane laugh. Shane doesn’t get it—it’s all make believe. How do people get this worked up about a little chainsaw chasin’?

Either way, in a hilariously _jolly_ turn of events, Ryan picks a Christmas movie, something very _heavily_ marketed toward women. Shane figures, what the hell. He could’ve done with _Krampus_, but this’ll have to do.

“_Ryan_,” Shane whines, feigning exasperation. “Anything else would be good, too.”

“Oh, fuck you. Like Christmas doesn’t give you the biggest boner.”

“Boner’s huge all on its own,” Shane says dismissively. “Don’t need Christmas for that.”

“Yeah, to match your big fuckin’ head.” Ryan looks at him, this—this lazy grin curling his lips. Shane’s a little stunned, doesn’t know why, but he is; just caught in this weird moment where he’s stoned, brain like puddled mush in his head, and all his eyes can focus on is Ryan’s mouth.

“Take a picture, dude,” Ryan says, looking away, but Shane would be remiss if he didn’t admit there was the loveliest flush of pink adorning Ryan’s cheeks right then.

“And risk my camera? Better not,” Shane mutters, but it’s halfhearted. Ryan doesn’t say anything back, just focuses on the screen, and Shane looks away from Ryan, just for a second, before catching a glimpse of that blush on Ryan’s cheeks again.

:::

When the credits roll, Shane yawns, and Ryan sucks at his teeth.

“The dumbest ending—”

“For the dumbest movie,” Shane cuts in, rolling his eyes. “How fitting.”

“It wasn’t that dumb. I just don’t get—nothing was explained. How do you have a whole premise and not explain it properly?” Ryan groans. “Ghosts don’t just come back. They could have at least stuck a witch in there. Cure the curse or whatever.”

“It’s just enough ‘explanation’ to explain the ridiculous magic of true love. Also, ghosts don’t exist, so there’s no sense in trying to rationalize a movie about a ghost that comes back to life.”

Ryan seems to weight the weight of Shane’s words—for a second he looks like he’s going to start his Ghosts Are Real diatribe—but he just rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. “Know what we should do, though?” Ryan says.

When Shane looks up at Ryan, Ryan’s eyes are alight, sparkling with something Shane can’t quite put a finger on. Shane doesn’t think he’s seen it before—he knows a lot of Ryan’s faces, a lot of the different kinds of eye sparkles in Ryan’s brown, brown eyes, framed by all those long, long lashes, casting shadows where that pink blush used to be, but this one is just—it catches him again, and Shane just—well, he doesn’t like the way it makes his stomach flip, somersaulting into his throat before settling. Shane clears his throat, like that’ll help.

It doesn’t.

“People deliver food, Ryan, I’m not leaving this room unless I have to pee.” Shane grabs his computer, scrolls through Netflix for something actually good to watch, instead of wasting his time on movies about people who deem themselves unable to love, until a ghost comes and knocks them off their feet. Just so fucking stupid.

“You don’t have a Christmas tree,” Ryan says, and Shane guffaws—of course he doesn’t have a tree in there. It’s just barely the beginning of the Christmas season.

“And you _do_?” Shane asks. Ryan nods.

“Well, a little one. Pulled it out today. Even has tiny little ornaments.” Ryan shows him a picture on his phone, his dumb face holding a thumb’s up in the foreground and his tree behind him; it’s got to be a foot, maybe foot and a half tall. Shane could reach into the air and pluck out one of a dozen short jokes, but all he does say is, “S’cute.”

“Come on,” Ryan says. “There’s a tree farm and everything.” There’s a beat of silence as Shane continues scrolling through the lists on Netflix, looking for something else, but suddenly, nothing looks all that appealing, and it’s not like it would _kill_ him to get out of bed and go pick up a tree with—

“Please, Shane,” Ryan pleads again, yanking Shane’s laptop from his lap, closing it and hiding it under the bed, bouncing off the mattress like a child on a mission—which Shane could suppose he is. Ryan has his mind set on it—so it must be done. Shane ducks into his shoulders, like he can sink and disappear into his mattress.

“But it’s freezing outside,” Shane mutters.

Ryan’s cackle reverberates off the walls, both of his hands circling around Shane’s ankles and tugging him ‘til he elicits a laugh out of Shane. “Yeah, _okay_,” Ryan says, both of them knowing well enough it’s in the low seventies and sunny—the most perfect day to be doing something like this.

“Fine,” Shane concedes, “but you’re driving.”

As if that wasn’t going to happen anyway. Shane’s a terrible driver; California just doesn’t welcome his midwestern driving. Ryan doesn’t quite trust him behind the wheel, which, totally fair, but it’s kinda funny to see the way Ryan white knuckles it. Ryan says, “Deal. I’m gonna go shower and get dressed. Better get going, cause I’m not waiting for you.”

Shane rolls his eyes, and they both pretend like Ryan’s telling the truth; if Shane really pushed it, Ryan would wait for him. He’d make a giant deal about it, but he’d wait. And—fuck, that stupid flipping stomach thing happens again, and—well, like most things that go wrong and weird in Shane’s life, he just blames it on the weed.

:::

Shower fresh, in a pair of jeans and flannel, Shane tugs on socks and boots, and leaves his dorm—which does smell faintly of cannabis—meandering down the hall and off to Ryan’s frat house.

When he walks in, albeit unannounced, but never uninvited, it’s quiet and there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. Maybe they’re all sleeping, quite like he would like to be. He bounds up the stairs in long strides.

Without knocking—which, fuck, he should definitely know better than that—Shane just opens the door to Ryan’s room; Ryan’s standing in the middle, jeans on, unbuttoned and unzipped. Shane can’t say why that’s where his eyes go first, considering his eyes are so high up and Ryan’s—well—is so down low, but in any case, Shane momentarily, oddly, unabashedly _looks_ because Ryan has a really nice body. And he’ll blame that on the weed later, too, when he’s thinking about it, but right now, Shane’s eyes just—kind of glaze over out of focus and then back in focus, perusing Ryan’s shirtless, naked skin for fractions of a second—shoulders, and pecs, and tummy, this fine trail of hair that disappears under the elastic of his underwear.

“Ready to go?” Ryan asks, looking up like he didn’t catch Shane just gawking at his naked torso. Maybe he didn’t, but it kinda feels like he did. Shane nods, wordlessly closing the door as he leaves Ryan’s room.

Shane has always been an introspective person. While he doesn’t necessarily wear his emotions on his sleeves, he can be honest with himself, with his feelings. But this—whatever the fuck this all is—he thought he’d shoved in a box, ages and ages ago, and dissolved that box in acid, never to be thought of again. But—and Shane would only make this joke in the privacy and Ryan-less confines of his own mind—the box seems to have come back to haunt him.

Standing against the wall, Shane fucking chuckles to himself.

It would be stupid not to admit, at the very least to himself, that Ryan’s incredibly attractive. Ryan’s kinda got a whole thing—he’s smart, funny, and quite easy on the eyes. There isn’t much that’s left to be desired. He likes Ryan’s stature, the heft of his shoulders, the glossiness of his eyes when he’s excited, the flush of his skin when he’s finished working out; the ease of his laughter when he’s been drinking, the languid way he slows down when he’s been smoking—

Well, now the box is back, spilling Ryanisms all over his brain like toxic waste. Shane is just going to go with it, follow Ryan around for the rest of the day, and pretend his fingertips aren’t tingling with the need to reach out and maybe just touch a little bit.

It’s not allowed, because they’re just friends and they have been for a good while. Nothing’s been weird between them at all, not as far as Shane is concerned, but, hey, the friendship is still young; nothing a little pining can’t ruin and incinerate to ashes. Shane’s seen the movies, he knows the deal.

He’s only a little startled when the door opens, and Ryan comes out, wearing one of his a too tight shirts, baby blue this time around, and messy hair falling over his forehead.

“Ready?” Ryan says, leading the way down the hall, not really waiting for a response. Shane has no choice but to follow him.

:::

Christmas tree shopping was something Shane never really did—when he was younger, sure, trailing behind his parents, picking snowball fights on the farmland with his brother. His parents alternated between him and his brother on who got to pick the tree that year. It feels like lightyears ago. Now, he’s just a half a year shy of his twenty third birthday and youth is all he knows, but there’s a hazy, far away feeling—like he can’t quite touch the memory.

There’s just over what feels like a billion people milling through the farm here. It’s not a true farm, just snow-less land sectioned off with trees, employees helping family pick trees. Ryan is giddy, though, walking up and down the rows of trees, inspecting and rejecting. There are height jokes tossed between the two of them, and it isn’t until finally, Ryan finds one, standing perfectly, maybe four feet in height; a giant compared to the little guy Ryan’s got on his dresser in his room.

It’s just that when Ryan points to the tree, he seems to feel the need to look behind him and take Shane’s hand in his own, tugging Shane along, like Shane wouldn’t follow him regardless. And—well, that’s new. More toxic waste to drizzle over the thoughts in his brain. The thing is, had Ryan just taken his hand, Shane could normalize it—could _maybe_ compartmentalize it, but their fingers are threaded together, and Shane watches their hands, arms stretched between their bodies.

Of course, had he been paying more attention, he probably would have anticipated a little kid darting right in front of him, but as it turns out, he doesn’t, because he’s not paying attention. Shane stops short, much too quickly, and the momentum knocks him right on his ass. The grip he has on Ryan’s hand means Ryan’s pulled along with him, falling neatly, just so fucking tidily, right onto Shane with a gentle _oof_.

The breath is knocked right out of Shane’s lungs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, only to open them and find Ryan’s face _right there_. His eyelashes are _so_ long, and his eyes are _so_ brown, and his lips are a little chapped, but pink—

“You okay, big guy?” Ryan says, chuckling a little. His breath smells like the cider he drank on the way over, and air hasn’t properly returned into Shane, but he nods anyway, and it’s like it takes Ryan just that side of too long to get off of Shane. People walk around them, looking but not staring, not helping either (how rude), but Ryan, considering their hands are still clasped (how did Ryan manage to get up that way???), tugs Shane’s arm, and Shane stands.

It is very noticeable that Ryan doesn’t let his hand go.

“Did you spill superglue on your palm before grabbing my hand?” Shane jokes, like a reflex, and Ryan looks down, almost bewildered, and lets Shane’s hand go. With that same hand, he rubs the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Ryan says, cheeks tinged pink, and turns his attention back to the tree, to which Ryan says, “Damn, it’s gone.”

Now, had Shane not allowed himself to sink so deep into his feelings, and let the hand holding thing go instead of cracking a joke in Classic Shane Fashion, the tree would still be there (probably), and Ryan wouldn’t have this heartbroken look on his face, and Shane wouldn’t feel guilty for putting it there.

“There are a million trees here, buddy. Chances are,” Shane consoles, “there’s another perfect one somewhere.”

And like that, the air between them stops crackling—it’s more like a simmer, and maybe that’s just Shane, but glancing down at Ryan, and lower to the hand he’d held (lifetimes ago, it seems) he notices Ryan just flexing his fingers, like he’s missing something.

And Shane just isn’t gonna put any stock into that!

:::

After maybe an hour, they do find a tree, just a little bit bigger, but fuller and greener, and much, much more perfect. Ryan is gleaming—Shane does love it when he’s right.

Ryan lugs it up, like the little lumber man he is, and Shane—because Ryan’s focused on the tree—allows his eyes to wander, trace over the way Ryan’s arms flex, thickly muscled and gorgeously tanned. Shane doesn’t have an arm thing, but hey, the arms are Ryan’s arms, and he’s got a Ryan thing as it turns out.

“Come on,” Ryan commands, “I wanna get decorations so we can set it all up.”

So, when Shane had woken up this morning, he thought it would be a chill, weed smoking, textbook reading, movie watching, lazy dick stroking kind of day. And while his plans have been thwarted by a particularly handsome pain in his ass, he’s not mad at it. He wants to get the decorations, and get lunch on the way back home, and put some cheesy Christmas jingles on in the background, while they decorate this tree his roommate is going to fucking hate, and then just call it a night, spending what he thought would be a quiet night in on cleaning up the toxic waste that’s oozing all over his brain. You know, compartmentalizing.

And listen, it’s not that _Ryan’s_ the toxic waste, by any means. If Shane is honest—which he is—Ryan is a pleasantry that kind of makes his mind a better place. It’s just—his emotions. That’s what’s truly hazardous, because while Shane is easily honest with himself, it’s not like he can just spill his thoughts and not expect to poison Ryan with what’s sure to be fatal radiation.

Because it would literally cause an explosion, right? Shane doesn’t like to overthink, but he’s carefully laid out the cause and events, except—

Except it wasn’t Shane that grabbed Ryan’s hand. He just held on.

“Where are you?” Ryan’s voice is distant, even though he’s standing right next to Shane, staring up at him with concern in his giant, beautiful bug eyes.

Come to think of it, Shane is pretty sure he’s gotta switch strains because whatever the fuck was in that weed—

“Right here, man,” Shane answers, nudging Ryan with his elbow. “Just thinking about lunch. Feeling like orange chicken today. Or pizza. Could go either way.”

“Orange chicken pizza…” Ryan says, his face screwed up all pensive-like, quirking an eyebrow and Shane laughs.

“Toke up enough, and that’s probably not a bad thought.”

Ryan chuckles, shaking his head, and Shane is just gonna slither down into denial—because honestly, he’s kind of over this day—and say that the sound of Ryan’s laugh doesn’t make his stomach flip again.

:::

They stop at a few stores—unsuccessful at finding parking—which was so stupidly dumb of them, considering it’s Black Friday. Shane can’t remember a time where he actually left his house to a big department store on any other Black Friday—his parents weren’t ones for the hype. His mom was all about Cyber Monday, and his dad was sneaky throughout the year, got his shit done early. Shane’s sure—because his father is terrible with secrets—that his gift was picked out in February.

Either way, they pull up to one of the many Targets in LA, parking all the way in the back, and beeline for the Christmas decorations. Between the two of them, feeling the Christmas cheer, they fill up a couple baskets with ornaments, ribbons, garland, and whatever else they can get their hands on. There’s Star Wars and Marvel ornaments and of course Ryan disappears to grab them by the handful, and Shane lets him, because—yeah, they’d be kinda neat to hang on the—their?—tree. He finds himself meandering a few aisles down, walking through the land of snow globes. He picks a few up, shakes them, watches the magic happen. 

Somewhat shoved behind some of the bigger ones, he finds one that’s modestly sized. He immediately likes it. It’s just a snow globe, and they’ve never fascinated him before, but on a whim, he shoves it into the basket, grabs a few bags of candy and chocolate, and goes in search of his friend. He figures, a late thought as he finds Ryan, that he’d just give the snow globe to him.

Looks like Ryan’s only settled on a few ornaments—a light saber, a Captain America shield, and Thor’s hammer. Good finds all around.

“Find anything good?” Ryan asks, peeking into Shane’s basket. Shane shrugs, not particularly hiding anything, but he doesn’t go shoving his basket under Ryan’s nose either.

“Just candy is all. Ready?” Shane says, reaching behind Ryan to pick up a Santa hat, laying it right on Ryan’s head. Ryan leaves it, smiling dumbly.

“Yeah. I’m starving. Pizza right? We can pick it up before we go home,” Ryan says, and he’s off, leading the way again, through middle aged women and men fighting for big screen TVs and discount Playstations for their no doubt brats.

Shane shakes his head. Not at them, but at himself, because he’s gone and hoisted himself out of his little hole of denial with his weak little noodle arms, holding onto the rope of _we_ and _home._

Cue the stomach flip.

:::

They split the Target bill, like they split for the tree, and they’re back in Ryan’s car, listening to Christmas music now, and Shane—well, Shane’s having a really good time. Just him and his toxic waste of emotions, and Ryan’s gleaming smile, laughing and singing along to Michael Bublé.

:::

There’s so much to notice. The denial hole was too dark and cold, so Shane’s walked away from that. Now, he’s just walked into his emotions, a total fucking internal wreck. There’s just—so much.

Sitting up against the headboard of his meager bed, Shane’s legs are stretched out in front of him. Ryan is sitting perpendicular-like, until he isn’t. 

Ryan smokes with intent. He holds the joint to his lips, takes a hard drag, a quick inhale, and just holds it in. And when he blows smoke out of the window, he has to—kind of?—slither over Shane’s thighs just to do it. Shane knows he could just say, “Why don’t we switch places?” but he likes it this way, so he doesn’t change it. At some point, Ryan’s just kind of rested over his thighs, his chest on Shane’s lap, blowing smoke out of the window as he drags these gorgeous, deliberate inhales. Shane’s dizzy, he finds, just watching Ryan’s back move underneath the strain of his baby blue t-shirt.

Shane’s got his own joint, just turns his head a little when he has to blow out. He doesn’t like to breathe in that deep—it makes him lightheaded, but he supposes it wouldn’t make a difference, considering Ryan’s kinda been doing that all day.

Ryan turns on his side, elbow digging into the bed, Shane’s knees knocking under Ryan’s ribs. It can’t be comfortable, but Shane’s not gonna move him.

“You’ve been kinda weird today,” Ryan accuses, but his voice is gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to scare Shane away. Shane shrugs.

“Just thinking about things,” Shane admits, because it’s the truth, but it’s not like he’s going to say _this weed has given me some glasses and I see you, clear as day._

“Like?”

“Like…food, and Christmas, and getting stoned, and like, dunno. Just stuff, I guess.” All true. And _just stuff_ is a messy, letter cluttered way to say “you”. But like, he’s gone and walked back to his denial hole, and looking down, it seems mighty appealing. He sits on the edge.

Like something catches his attention, Ryan licks his lips, looking out of the window. “I had fun today,” he says, and his voice—it’s like a secret. And Shane doesn’t know what to do with it. So, within the walls of his mind, he finds a box, labels it, JUST STUFF, and drops that little sentiment into the box. He leaves the box out, because—well, the crackle has returned, the air thick with static, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself but collect more of these sentiments Ryan is bound to say.

“Well, we got more fun, my guy. Christmas tree ain’t gonna suck itself—” Ryan erupts with laughter “—or whatever they say.”

“You’re so _dumb_,” Ryan huffs, but his voice is dripping fondness, and they look at each other for too long. Shane can _feel_ the air, feel Ryan’s ribs expand witch each of his breaths and they’re really close for this to be just casual. He should say something.

“Are you gonna get off of me?” he says, and that’s not quite what he wanted to say (not at all, _God_) and Ryan scrambles a little, and there it is, that stupidly pretty blush, and Ryan’s dumb glossy, lazy eyes, and his messy hair and his pizza grease lips, and—

Shane’s going to set himself on fire.

:::

Like it happened in his mind, there’s Christmas music playing in the background, somewhere from Ryan’s phone. They’ve busted out the ornaments and garland. Shane’s pushed aside his clothes from out of his dirty clothes corner to make room for the tree. It stands proudly, and Shane just kinda stares at it fondly, standing back to watch Ryan kneel as he randomly places the ornaments. It’s nice to watch, but Ryan’s onto him.

“You gonna help, or do I have to do everything myself?” Ryan says, reaching behind him, grabbing Shane’s wrist and tugging him down to his knees. The skin around his wrist feels warm, because Ryan’s hand lingers, like his eyes linger, and the silence of Shane’s compliance just_ lingers_.

“Alright, alright.” Shane reaches from the pile of Christmas shit, picking up a string of garland and he gets to work.

:::

They’re still laughing.

It’s been like an hour since they finished, more weed down the hatch, and the tree looks—

Well, it’s atrocious. One side of the tree is ornament heavy, and it’s tilted off to the side, and it just looks janky, exactly like two stoned college kids decided it was a good idea to decorate it.

When the laughter finally dies, it just starts back up. Ryan’s got tears in his eyes and Shane can barely keep his own open. His stomach hurts so badly, he just wants to stop laughing. But every time he does, he looks at Ryan, and then at the tree, and it’s just—

Momentary eternity.

:::

“Okay, but hear me out.”

“Absolutely everything you say that starts with ‘hear me out’ turns out to be complete bullshit. So no, Ryan, I will _not _hear you out.”

“Okay, but _consider_ _this_—”

Shane groans.

“—a Christmas zombie apocalypse. Elves just running—”

“Running elf zombies? Can’t they at least be the slow kind?”

“—bringing Santa kids to eat.”

“Dreadful,” Shane chuckles. “Also, very stupid.”

Ryan wheezes. “I think it’s funny. Probably would be a good movie.”

They’re lying on Shane’s bed. Well, Shane’s lying on his bed, and Ryan’s kind of lying on him, back against Shane’s belly. Shane has tossed giving a shit to the wind, and his fingers are curled through Ryan’s hair, where they have been for the last—quick glance at the clock—hour or so.

Silence falls, and there’s a calm. No crackle. A clean-up crew has come to clean the toxic waste from Shane’s mind, and it’s closed for remodeling. The hole of denial has been filled and covered. He’s out of his mind, but in a good way.

For a moment, he thinks Ryan has fallen asleep, and honestly, he would move to pull the blankets up, but he doesn’t want to bug Ryan. It’s just—so much calm, it would be a shame to ruin it.

“Hey,” Ryan whispers.

“Yo,” Shane says, and Ryan kind of huff-giggles, another one of his weird wheezes, jostling against Shane, which isn’t the best thing Ryan could have done just then. His body is too lazy for him to be in control, and if anything happens to scare Ryan off—well, maybe he just won’t forgive himself.

Quiet settles again, but just for a few seconds.

“You stopped playing with my hair, so I thought you fell asleep.” Ryan’s voice is quiet, like he’s been thinking a long time. Shane wants to know what about, though, wants to be mini sized, just so he can walk the unknown of Ryan’s thoughts, pull apart strands of thoughts, search and look and _find_.

“No, I’m awake. Tired though,” Shane admits, combing his fingers through Ryan’s hair.

“I, um. I knew you were gonna be alone. Cause you told me,” Ryan says, voice soft, pensive-like. “I told my mom I just wanted to stay here. So, I could—”

“Invite yourself into my Shane-cation?”

There’s another gentle rumble of laughter, and then—well, yeah. What Shane thought would happen does, and he doesn’t move, and neither does Ryan.

“Well, yeah. It’s been a while since we, like, hung out like this,” Ryan says, and to Shane’s ears, it sounds like a confession. Shane doesn’t know what for, doesn’t know why, because—

“We’ve never hung out like this.” Shane counters. Because they don’t. There’s always been space between them, and Shane doesn’t play with Ryan’s hair, and Ryan doesn’t just lay on him like this, smoked out and lazy, in a twin bed too small to contain the two of them.

“Well, maybe we should. Like more. Maybe like—I don’t know.” And then Ryan fucking shifts, and says, “_Oh, shit_,” under his breath, and Shane’s face is already red. But Ryan is turning around and now Shane’s dick is hard against Ryan’s chest, and Ryan is like—_unmoved_ by it, and it sort of annoys Shane as much as it relieves him. “Do you know what I mean?”

Shane lets his hands fall to his side, and kind of just stares back at Ryan as Ryan stares at him, blinking with his enormous owl eyes. “No,” Shane sighs, “I don’t know what you mean.”

The remodeling in Shane’s mind is suddenly obliterated when Ryan says, “I’m laying right on your dick, man. You gotta know a little bit.”

“I want to know all of it,” Shane says, his voice maybe a little curt since he’s slightly exasperated in the way Ryan seems to want Shane to guess what he’s thinking. “Say what you mean if you mean it. Otherwise, I’m going to sleep.”

Looking up at the ceiling is the coward’s way out, but he can’t help it. Looking at Ryan feels more like an admission of all the feelings he’s been feeling, and he’s not brave enough to be that vulnerable.

“I mean—I stayed here, and took you to get a Christmas tree, and laid with you eating pizza and decorating and—I just—I like _you_, Shane.” Ryan’s fingers toy with a button on Shane’s flannel—he’s hyper aware of Ryan, like he’s invading his senses. “And at first, I thought it was just cause sometimes we smoke weed, and you get this dumb look on your face, and literally, I just kinda brushed it off, but,” Ryan huffs, “you just seem to do that a lot. Look at me—like, there’s something on my face.”

Shane leans up on his elbows—he realizes his heart is pounding in his chest, and he like, connects things in his mind. Little moments that spell out a whole giant moment, like the fact that today—today was weird and had his brain all frazzled because friends do shit together, sure, but today felt more like—like a snow day he’d spend with someone he’s into, just doing shit and being close—because they liked each other. A lot.

“Do you want me to not look at you?” Shane asks, cocking his head to the side and Ryan sighs, leaning his forehead on Shane’s tummy, and Shane accidentally groans, and just falls back on the mattress.

“No, _fuck_, did you not just hear what I said?”

“You say a lot of shit when you’re stoned,” Shane excuses. “Like fucking Christmas zombie apocalypses. And wanting to get Christmas trees, and fuckin—orange chicken pizza—”

“And that I fuckin’ like you, idiot.”

“I’m just—” Shane rubs his face and he can feel Ryan climb up his body, settling between his thighs, and yeah—there’s Ryan, on top of him, hard in his jeans, too. That can’t be a mistake, right? Like, this doesn’t just happen. For this to happen, two people have to like each other. There has to be mutual attraction. But Shane’s just—it’s hard (haha!) for him to believe it all. His brain just—it rejects the idea. And he doesn’t know why.

“Hey,” Ryan whispers; he’s so close and Shane’s heart is pounding in his chest, and Ryan’s prying his hands away from his face.

“Hey,” Shane says back, blinking stars out of his eyes. And there’s Ryan, Ryan and his giant eyes, just looking at him. And maybe Ryan’s been looking back at him this whole time and all that toxic waste builds up again—

“You gonna let me like you, or what?” Ryan asks, his hand still holding one of Shane’s wrists.

“This isn’t—this isn’t because we’re stoned and it’s comfortable and convenient, right? This isn’t because sometimes bros, like, bro down or whatever. Right?”

“Nope.” Ryan’s huff of laughter is marijuana and pizza and chocolate and, just him, Shane guesses.

“Okay. Okay, cool.”

“Cool? I just like, poured my heart out to you—”

Shane snorts. “Hardly. You jumbled a bunch of shit together just to make me feel pretty so probably, maybe, I’d touch your dick.” Shane’s grinning though, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, partly, but also, can you just answer me?”

“Answer what?”

“Are you gonna let me like you?” Ryan says, exasperated, with his brows knitted and his smile so tender.

The moment evaporates, because Shane is a class-A idiot. “I have to pee,” he mutters, pushing at Ryan’s shoulder.

“Uh, oh—” Ryan shuffles off of Shane, rolling onto the bed beside him. Shane gets up, and he’s kind of dizzy on his feet, like his limbs are suddenly too long. He leaves the dorm without looking back and the sound of Shane gently closing the door behind him sounds like a question mark.

:::

Of course, he didn’t have to pee. Because, you know, he’s hard. He goes to the bathroom anyway, standing in front of the mirror, splashing water on his face. He looks at his reflection, and despite having showered that morning, he look a mess, tired with his hair messy, his beard scruffy in that weird spot where he should shave but he kind of wants it to grow out. He can’t quite make eye contact with himself, though; he’s trying to hide from himself. From it all. He’s old enough to know that this is how things are ruined. He’s an adult (barely) and should have the wherewithal to form an adult relationship with another adult. 

Yet, for some reason, it spooks him. Because it’s Ryan. And Ryan is just—untouchable, just out of his grasp. But that’s not true either, because Ryan is. He _is_. He is in Shane’s bed (or maybe he isn’t considering how Shane just slowly skittered out of there, dazed and confused about what was happening). Isn’t this what he wanted? For Ryan to look at him just like he was, dazed and not at all confused? Ryan was saying things, nice things, things that made Shane’s heartbeat leap, his skin warm, and his chest blossom with that fervor that was becoming an all too familiar feeling, but Shane just—_left_.

So, that just means he has to go back, is all. Shane will return and if Ryan’s there, then he’s there, and if not, that’s on Shane and nobody else, right?

Right. 

And because Shane has always been rather fearless, he gathers up his broken courage and glues it back together with a few deep breaths and walks back to his dorm. 

When he opens the door to his dorm, he finds Ryan lying back on his bed, scrolling through his phone. It dawns on Shane that all day, they’ve been stuck in a bubble, their own curated world. No texting or Instagram or Twitter or Facebook or _distractions. _It’s been the Shane and Ryan show this whole time—Shane’s heart leaps into his throat, makes him feel wobbly on his feet. The paradigm shift of this entire moment falls differently into view. Because they’ve been so entertained by each other they hadn’t needed to find something else. 

That speaks volumes, Shane thinks, that they could go for this much time with each other without much else. Shane closes the door behind himself. He doesn’t know why, but he shifts the lock closed, too.

Setting his phone down on the nightstand next to Shane’s bed, Ryan sits cross-legged, fingers picking at threads on Shane’s comforter.

The silence prickles at Shane’s skin, which is soothed by Ryan’s tentative voice asking, “Are you okay?”

“I got you something,” Shane says, choosing to ignore the question all together. “It’s kinda stupid, but don’t laugh.”

Kneeling at the gathering of Target bags, Shane rifles through extra decorations and plastic wrappers to find the snow globe. It’s heavy in his hands, but he carries it back to bed, sitting cross-legged in front of Ryan. Ryan plucks the snow globe from Shane’s hand, shaking it, watching the artificial snow drift in the water. He laughs, despite Shane asking him not to, but the wonder in Ryan’s eyes expresses adoration, not anything close to maliciousness. 

“Anything with a height difference is really our brand, huh?” Ryan says, looking up at Shane. And Shane knows—fuck, he knows, he could have torn everything they’d spent all day building to shreds, but Ryan just isn’t going to allow it, it seems. 

Smiling, Shane shrugs. “It kinda is,” he agrees. He watches Ryan shake it again, the snow swirling around the two little Christmas trees, one of them just a smidge taller than the other.

“I found some new bands the other day,” Shane says, even though he knows his and Ryan’s music tastes fall on opposite sides of the spectrum. But Shane doesn’t know what to do otherwise, and he doesn't want to watch a movie, or play games. Just kinda wants to be.

“Okay,” Ryan says. 

“Do you want to listen?” Shane asks. 

Looking up at Shane, all curious eyes and soft lips, Ryan nods, shaking the snow globe again and setting it down on the windowsill. “Okay.”

:::

Night has fallen, now. The only light in the room is the robotic twinkle of the Christmas lights. They’re listening to music, plugged into Shane’s phone, listening through earphones like there are people around. This way is much more intimate, Shane thinks. In one ear, there’s folky guitars and a crooning singer, lyrics like syrup. In the other ear, the sound of Ryan’s breathing accompanies that soundtrack, hypnotic. Here they are, Ryan’s body pressed against him, tucked into his chest like—well, like there’s a Ryan shaped space that was carved out of Shane’s side. He likes the thought—that maybe Ryan just belongs here in this space, in this too small bed, warm underneath the comforter.

The Christmas lights twinkle, Ryan breathes, and Shane just _falls_ a little further. Yeah, yeah of course he’s gonna let Ryan like him. Whether Shane likes it or not, Ryan is gonna, and Shane’s just gonna cross the county line and step right into the state of being in love.

Long time coming, Shane feels. It must be, considering the way Ryan’s fingers have a mind of their own, tracing over Shane’s chest, skirting over the fabric of his flannel. They settle, like he finds the raucous beating of Shane’s heart and decides that’s what he wants to feel against the palm of his hand.

And Shane settles his hand right on top of Ryan's.

:::

When Shane wakes up, he feels like his skin is boiling. He shoves off the blankets and—

A soft groan makes him freeze.

_Ryan_.

Warmth floods his body, but it’s. It’s _different _now. Cause Ryan’s tucked right into his chest and his arm is strung around Shane’s waist, and Shane realizes while he might literally be burning alive, he finds he’s comfortable.

Timeless moments pass and Ryan looks up at him, wide awake, and Shane looks back, eyesight flickering down to the soft curve of Ryan’s open mouth.

“Come here,” Shane whispers, and Ryan does, moving his hand up Shane’s chest, to press against the curve of his neck.

:::

Their faces are so close—he can feel Ryan’s breath against his lips, his eyes blinking owlishly at Shane. His eyelashes flutter when Shane kisses him, and Ryan’s sharp inhale is a gasp of relief, like _finally_.

:::

It’s because he’s been wanting to all day, because he can’t stand the way Ryan has been so close, just watching him, daring him. So, he accepts the dare, and goes in for it. And Ryan’s mouth is just a soft as it looks, warm, but insistent. In the haze of the kiss, just their lips pressed together, Shane can feel Ryan’s hand find his wrist, fingertips tripping over the skin of Shane’s palm, just to lay his palm against Shane’s. Their fingers clasp, and with a short breath on Shane’s part, Ryan pulls back, just for a second, and.

It’s _reckless_.

Ryan’s mouth tastes like desperation, like heat and passion, like urgency. Shane’s hungry for it, the way Ryan makes himself home on top of Shane, just settles against his body, right in between his thighs. It’s been all day, all night this close, and somehow, there’s still too much space between them, like Shane can just—just _press_ into Ryan. Science doesn’t work that way—their bodies are hot and solid, and this is just as close as they’re going to get. _Not enough, not enough, not enough,_ Shane’s body chants, like that’s the sound his heartbeat makes. Ryan’s breathing drives him wild.

The drag of Ryan’s hips over his own makes Shane shudder, choke out a moan into Ryan’s mouth. There’s a steady rhythm built between the two of them, a slick give and take. The sheets rustle and the bed squeaks and Ryan kisses over Shane’s chest, pulling at Shane’s flannel collar to find flesh, sucking gentle little marks into his willing skin.

It’s like a slow burn, isn’t it? That’s what Shane feels—this molten heat dripping through his veins, the way it burns inside of him. Ryan’s here, and that’s a lot for him, it’s a lot to reconcile, because this morning, Ryan wasn’t here. But that’s how things happen, he supposes. Things are, until they aren’t, and here, lying underneath the weight of Ryan’s body, he knows things are. They are treacherous. Precipitous. Dangerous, like knowing it could go up in flames, but it’s too alluring to run back to safety. And who cares, huh? If it all burns to the ground.

Even if it takes all night to burn and all that Shane finds later is ash, well, Shane doesn’t really care.

With his hands on Ryan’s waist, pressing into his back underneath his baby blue shirt, Ryan breaks their kiss. Shane can’t help but watch, the way Ryan’s brows knit close, his eyes closed, lashes so long, fanning across those pink, pink cheeks. He watches the way Ryan breathes deep, moans so softly Shane strains to hear it. He’s holding himself up on his elbows, bracketing Shane’s face, and Shane can feel Ryan’s fingers in his hair; when Shane turns his face, his mouth brushes against Ryan’s forearm. He presses a kiss into his skin as he rolls his hips underneath Ryan; he’s cautiously aware that Ryan is getting himself off using Shane’s body, bringing Shane along, and the thought of how much more it could be, feeling Ryan all over him, or flipping Ryan onto his back and slipping _inside _of him—Shane closes his eyes, because it’s all too much. He groans into the open air, borrowing the quiet, destroying the tranquility.

When his eyes open, Ryan’s looking back at him, and then, because nothing has been enough all night, Shane finds the hems of Ryan’s clothes, tugs and tugs and Ryan’s tugging and then there’s just skin. No flannel or jeans or baby blue tees; they kick away the blankets, because they need all the space they can get, because there’s just enough surface area on this tiny little mattress for their bodies.

It’s new—God, the sensation of Ryan’s sweaty skin, his thighs, his cock, his stomach and chest, the way he drags his kiss wet lips across Shane’s collarbones. There’s no endgame, Shane realizes, sweat-slick and breathing hard into Ryan’s messy hair. This is exploratory, an adventurous mapping of invisible constellations embedded in each other’s flesh. Shane allows his hands, like Ryan allows his own, and they touch. Shoulders and arms, chests and waists, thighs, and this new but familiar drag of their hips. There’s a choked moan in Shane’s throat, and he’s breathing so hard his lungs are sore—

“I wanna hear you,” Ryan says in an ironic whisper. His face is hidden in the curve of Shane’s neck, and his whisper is so loud, melting into quiet breaths, a whimper when Shane’s hands smooth over the expanse of Ryan’s back, over his ass to pull him closer.

“I just want so much of you,” Ryan continues. “All the time, okay?” Ryan’s breath hitches, and Shane’s fingers dig into his flesh. “Your body and your mind, and just—_uh_—you. So much, so much,” he murmurs, trailing into whispering Shane’s name over and over and over, erratic, urgent until Shane is calling Ryan’s name, coming between the two of them. And when Shane whispers, _please, please, Ryan_, Ryan’s coming too, shuddering on top of him, sobbing Shane’s name into his throat.

Blood is rushing through Shane’s ears, and he keeps his eyes closed for a moment; he’s so tired. Ryan is heavy on his chest, wet with sweat and come; Shane scratches his nails gently over the back of Ryan’s thigh. Ryan pulls back to look down at Shane, breathing hard, his mouth a wreck and his eyes alight with fire, Shane catches the light of the Christmas tree glowing green and red over the side of Ryan’s beautiful, beautiful face.

:::

It’s almost two in the morning—Shane is fucked out and tired, and Ryan isn’t much better. They’ve since cleaned up, even though they were lazy about it. Naked underneath his bed sheets, with cool night air fanning over his cheek—he kisses Ryan’s forehead, and Ryan hums. His eyes are closed, and his cheeks are still warm—it’s been hours since, and they’ll do it again soon, because it’s like a drug, this feeling. All those chemicals swirling in his brain. He can’t get enough; it’ll become an addiction, and they’ll do it again and again (hopefully, probably), but he’ll remember this, the very first time, this momentary eternity he spent searching Ryan’s skin for sighs and whimpers, for those delicious groans, holding him afterwards to quell the tremors of his body.

“Yeah,” Shane whispers, and Ryan touches his face with the palm of his hand, scratching his nails over the scruff of Shane’s beard.

“Hmm?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna let you like me,” Shane says, and Ryan laughs, even when he finds Shane’s lips for a tender kiss.

:::

When Shane falls asleep, he dreams he and Ryan are wearing giant orange hazmat suits. They’re armed with shovels, hurdling glowing green, radioactive, toxic waste into barrels labeled with skull and crossbones. When they’re all done, they find a garden underneath it all.

It blooms.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. i'm [uneventfulhouses](https://uneventfulhouses.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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